The Last Pleasure Garden (33 page)

Rose Perfitt does not listen. Instead, she screams –
an incoherent cry that resembles no spoken word – and kicks out with her legs. More through chance than design, her boot lands squarely upon her attacker's shin, causing him to stumble and loosen his grip. She squirms loose and dashes towards the nearest opening in the hedge. But even before she has gone a yard, she can feel something tugging at the base of her skirts, and the sound of a blade ripping through the material. She glances over her shoulder, to see the clergyman, having fallen on his knees, grabbing her dress, slashing wildly at her legs, cutting at her exposed petticoats. She reaches back and pulls sharply at the cloth, desperately willing it to tear. And, after what seems to her like an age – though it can only be an instant – it obliges.

A strange feeling of exultancy overwhelms her as she runs headlong into the maze, her hair cropped like some prisoner in Newgate, her legs half exposed. Everything seems a mad blur as she runs through the labyrinth, with hardly a thought to her direction. And, although she knows each twist and turn perfectly well when she is in her right senses, Rose soon becomes lost.

She slows down, trying to find her bearings; but it proves impossible; each turning is much like another. Nonetheless, she keeps going, until, confounded, she comes to a dead end.

Finally, she stops and turns around, her heart still pounding. Then she hears the sound of footsteps on the gravel path.

‘Miss Perfitt?'

It is the clergyman's voice. Desperately, she tries to find some opening in the hedge; but she finds it is as solid as any brick wall and she only succeeds in scratching her hands.

The black-suited figure of Featherstone turns the corner.

‘I am afraid, Miss Perfitt, you cannot escape me.'

She stays perfectly still as the clergyman approaches, more cautious this time, the scissors raised before him. There is something almost perversely mesmerising in the fixed look in his eyes, the grim determination in his face.

Then a voice breaks the silence. ‘Rose!'

Rose Perfitt, however, can hardly find the strength to speak.

‘Rose!' exclaims George Nelson, running up behind Featherstone. ‘Was that you? I saw you come—'

Nelson stops in mid-sentence. He is quick enough to see the scissors as Featherstone turns and lunges towards him. He should be, moreover, younger and stronger than the clergyman. But there is something frenzied and frantic in Featherstone's assault that catches him off guard, the cold metal inches from his arm, even as he tries to throw his assailant to one side.

Rose watches, rooted to the spot, as the two men struggle, Featherstone pushing Nelson into the hedge. It becomes difficult to make out who has the upper hand until, without warning, something in the clergyman seems to give way, and he falls back, clutching his stomach. Rose watches, mute, as a sickly choking sound emerges from Featherstone's throat, and he collapses to the ground, blood soaking through his fingers, his hands vainly trying to stem a crimson flood from his belly.

As for George Nelson, he drops the blood-stained scissors, his face quite gaunt.

And then comes the sound of footsteps once more,
and two police constables of T Division, truncheons raised, appear in the narrow corridor.

‘Bloody hell!' exclaims one to the other. ‘We've only got him, Charlie. We've got The Cutter!'

D
ecimus Webb looks on as the steamboat shudders noisily into life, chugging away from Cremorne pier, gliding into the darkness until only its red warning lamp is visible. The light becomes smaller and smaller, fading as the boat passes Battersea Bridge, as if drowning in the murky river. Webb turns to his sergeant.

‘Is that the last?' he asks.

‘The Gardens should be empty now, sir,' says Bartleby.

‘Except for Miss Rose Perfitt,' replies Webb.

‘What do you make of it, sir?'

‘I don't know,' replies Webb. ‘It cannot be a coincidence. I do not believe it. From what the constable told me . . . well, let us go and speak to her; at all events, she cannot stay here all night.'

Bartleby nods his assent. The two policemen walk back along the esplanade and into the Gardens. Their route takes them past the Crystal Platform, past the twin tiers of supper-boxes that surround it and along another path that leads to the Cremorne Hotel, an old waterside mansion adjoining the pleasure grounds.

In fact, the building itself, though constructed in a grand style, is a little run-down and shabby. Once
famous for its Sunday table d'hôte and The Cremorne Sherry, it is common knowledge that the hotel now possesses a rather dubious reputation. For even the greatest supporters of Cremorne have occasionally questioned what goes on behind the muslin curtains of its four private rooms – known by the romantic names of the
Gem, Star, Rose
and
Pearl –
whilst others have openly speculated upon the character of the women who frequent its crush bar. But none of this matters to Decimus Webb, who is merely content to find Rose Perfitt seated indoors, in the empty space of the hotel's ground-floor saloon. Her dress is still in tatters but a blanket lies about her shoulders, and a glass of warm negus is clutched in her hands.

‘Miss Perfitt?' says Webb, stepping tentatively into the room, nodding to the policeman who stands watch near by.

Rose Perfitt looks up. Her face is red and flushed, her eyes bloodshot and verging upon tearful.

‘Yes,' she replies, quietly.

‘You remember me, perhaps?'

‘You're the policeman,' she replies.

‘That is correct. My name is Webb. Forgive me, Miss Perfitt, but this is a serious business, and I have no time to waste on pleasantries. Are you capable of discussing what transpired this evening?'

Rose Perfitt seems to hesitate for a moment, but assents. Webb, in turn, pulls up one of the saloon's chairs, and sits down in front of her.

‘Can you tell me first, Miss Perfitt, how you came to be in the Gardens?'

‘I was running away, Inspector,' says Rose, in a matter of fact tone.

‘I see,' replies Webb, a little non-plussed. ‘From whom?'

‘Papa said he was going to take me away from Chelsea; I don't know why. I would have missed the Season! I said I would not leave. We had an argument.'

‘And so you thought you would run away to Cremorne Gardens? Forgive me, Miss, I don't quite follow.'

‘I . . . I suppose I was not thinking, Inspector. You must consider me very foolish.'

Webb tilts his head. ‘I reserve judgment on that score, Miss. And so you went into the Gardens alone?'

‘Yes.'

‘Have you been there before?'

A pause.

‘Not at night, no.'

‘I see,' says Webb. ‘Please, continue.'

I was walking by the Marionette Theatre, and Reverend Featherstone found me there. He took my arm; told me I was, well, that I should go back to my parents. The Reverend – is he . . . dead?'

‘Yes, I'm afraid so, Miss. Did you know him well?' asks Webb.

‘His wife used to call upon Mama, Inspector. And we went to hear his sermons on occasion. I cannot say I knew him well. If I had known the truth about him, I would have . . . well, I do not know.'

‘The truth being . . .?'

‘Inspector,' says Rose, firmly, ‘don't you see? He was The Cutter! That is why he dragged me into the wretched maze; he meant to kill me.'

‘Rest assured, I can see you have been through the wars, Miss. So he took you into the maze?'

‘Yes,' replies Rose, wearily. ‘He attacked me like a lunatic. I ran but I lost my way. Then . . . then a man followed us. He must have heard me scream.'

‘This man, did you recognise him?'

Rose hesitates once more, but only for an instant. ‘No.'

‘And then?' prompts Webb.

‘I think that scared him. He seemed to go wild, Inspector. He took the scissors and he went and . . . he cut himself . . . I am sorry, I cannot . . .'

Rose Perfitt shuts her eyes, rubbing them with her hand.

‘Let me be quite clear, Miss Perfitt,' says Webb, steadily. ‘Are you saying that Featherstone killed himself? That it was suicide?'

Rose Perfitt nods, her lips trembling.

‘The fellow who came up to you, Miss Perfitt, is a ticket-of-leave man, known to the police. A convict by the name of Nelson. We have him under arrest – so you are quite safe from him. Now, are you telling me that Nelson had nothing to do with the Reverend's death?'

‘Yes,' says Rose, looking up again. ‘Reverend Featherstone must have known that he had been discovered; that he could not get away. I suppose that is why . . . why he did it. If you had seen his eyes, Inspector. He was demented.'

‘Very well,' says Webb. ‘That will be all, for the moment, I think.'

‘May I go now, Inspector? I suppose I must go home.'

‘Finish your drink, Miss Perfitt. I had better accompany you. I won't be too long.'

Webb finds George Nelson seated in a private room, not far from the saloon, his hands handcuffed behind his back, and two policemen at his side.

‘Mr. Nelson, we meet once more,' says Webb.

‘Oh, it's you, is it?' replies Nelson.

‘Yes, sir. Aren't you fortunate? Now, perhaps you'd care to tell me what happened.'

‘And maybe,' replies Nelson, ‘you might have your bully boys here take these blasted cuffs off.'

Webb ponders for a moment then nods. One of the constables retrieves a key, and releases the metal bonds.

‘I'm obliged,' says Nelson, without much sincerity.

‘I should think you'd be used to it,' says Bartleby, ‘down Pentonville.'

Nelson smirks. ‘Nah, they have proper heavy iron there, old man. None of your daisy chains.'

‘Now, why did you kill him, eh?' asks Webb bluntly, without further preliminaries.

‘Kill who?'

‘The clergyman. You gutted him, did you not, with those scissors? A nice piece of work for a reformed man.'

Nelson chuckles to himself. ‘You'd like that, wouldn't you? Who says so?'

‘Never mind that,' says Webb.

‘I never killed no-one. And I'll lay odds you know it, too.'

‘How should I?' replies Webb.

‘Well, you've got a witness, ain't you?'

Webb shrugs. ‘Perhaps. If you are so innocent, tell me, then, why were you in the maze?'

‘I was clearing the grounds, looking for stragglers, like we do every night. I heard a girl shouting; sounded like she was in trouble. I went and had a look, to see if I could do anything.'

‘Very valiant of you,' remarks Bartleby.

‘Thank'ee,' replies Nelson, tipping an imaginary hat in acknowledgement.

‘So you went into the maze?' asks Webb. ‘You found her pretty quickly, it seems.'

‘I know the grounds, don't I? I found her all right – and that old devil, too. Good thing I came along, I reckon. I probably deserve a medal.'

‘And what happened then?'

‘The old man lost his nerve, I suppose. Did for himself.'

‘Simple as that?' asks Webb. ‘Plunged the blades into his own belly?'

‘I reckon so,' replies George Nelson.

‘You had blood on your hands.'

‘I tried to help him. It was too late.'

‘How convenient for you. The constable here,' says Webb, nodding in the direction of the nearest policeman, ‘has you down for the Cremorne Cutter, Mr. Nelson, not the old man.'

Nelson shrugs. ‘Then he's an idiot.'

The policeman in question visibly bristles.

‘Still,' continues Webb, ‘I think we better have you down the station house, just to be safe. We shall let the Coroner decide. Put the cuffs back on him, Constable.'

The constable readily obeys with a certain degree of vigour that has George Nelson regret his remark. But the convict does not complain, allowing himself to be shackled.

‘Bring him this way, if you will,' says Webb, quitting the room, and walking down the hotel corridor, in the direction of the saloon. Bartleby follows, with Nelson in the custody of the two policemen, one holding each arm. When Webb comes up to the saloon, rather than proceeding directly to the hotel lobby, he opens the double doors that lead inside.